


Sur(real)

by JackalopingIntoTheVoid



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:23:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackalopingIntoTheVoid/pseuds/JackalopingIntoTheVoid
Summary: This must have been planned from the start. Perhaps his face now would be more familiar than it might have been otherwise.That thought made him feel… odd, so he brushed it aside– and hesitated. Should he knock, or just enter? He was expected but…He needed to stop standing here.Struggling to swallow, John opened the door.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	Sur(real)

John didn’t think he’d ever seen a sky so blue.

There was a strong wind, pulling at his hair and clothing, rushing past his uncovered skin; he’d gotten used to it, but even with the sun beating down it was almost too cold. It carried the rustling and scent of the grass with it, and the sensations were prickling at something in his brain, as if they were familiar.

Glancing back over his shoulder, John could still see Hood’s encouraging smile. The Admiral had been vague about how he’d managed all of this, and John wasn’t going to ask. He was still trying to figure out if he was grateful or resentful, nervous or excited.

All he knew for sure was that his stomach had tightened into a thick knot that didn’t seem like it was going to loosen anytime soon, and the lump in his throat was getting bigger as he approached the enclosed pavilion.

There were too many unaccounted for variables, too many unknowns. He’d never been to this part of this planet before (never seen so much open green space outside of his dreams), there would apparently be no one monitoring the meeting, no other person nearby aside from Lord Hood who was clearly staying a ways off. John wasn’t in armour; wasn’t in BDUs or dress blues.

A soft t-shirt, bereft of medals. Stiff jeans with only four pockets and little give. A light jacket that barely provided protection from the chill. Thick boots that felt sturdy to walk in but were clearly made from suboptimal materials.

Unfamiliar. Exposed.

John reached the wooden door, and stopped. There were glass panes in the frame, and it was still somewhat startling to see his own reflection. It had changed significantly over the past two weeks, but he hadn’t seen much of it before then either.

(He should have realised that Lord Hood would not be pleased at his defiance– but no one could have predicted that he’d spend the next fortnight being dragged around planetside in civvies because “some sun will do you good”.)

This must have been planned from the start. Perhaps his face now would be more familiar than it might have been otherwise.

That thought made him feel… odd, so he brushed it aside– and hesitated. Should he knock, or just enter? He was expected but…

He needed to stop standing here.

Struggling to swallow, John opened the door.

He recognised the elderly couple sat inside, past the little ornate table laden with tea and cookies; Hood had shown him the photos and vid messages they’d sent. Photos and messages they’d given to a stranger who’d promised they’d reach John. Messages filled with tears and smiles and _We’ve missed you so much, we’re so glad you’re alive_.

All other thoughts ground to a halt at their eyes on him. They both gasped at the same time, and for one long moment all was still.

He felt the faint urge to bolt, but was pinned in place by those eyes.

Then they both stood, and the man– his father (that felt so strange) surged forwards with a tearful cry of, “John!” and he flinched back before he could catch himself.

To the– to his father’s credit, he stopped dead, took two steps back, but the huge smile stayed on his face, even as the tears fell down his cheeks. “_John_.” He said again, voice worn and rough with age and use, and there was such_ joy_ in it that John had no idea what to do. “John, oh John!”

This was– he didn’t know what to do. It was too much, too intense, too… big.

Too big. It filled the room, _he_ filled the room, despite being smaller than John; though, admittedly, not by much. This was… familiar. Faint, distant, the impression of booming laughter rather than the sound, but familiar all the same. Somehow that only made it worse.

Slowly, his father approached again, blue eyes (blue like John’s) drinking in every detail. John tried to control his breathing and slow his heart as Mr– no, no, he’d chosen this, he was going to put in the effort– as… dad? No, that was… as his father reached out to grasp his shoulders.

The older man squeezed firmly, then laughed breathlessly, and John found himself a little calmer, more grounded. The person in front of him was solid and warm; it was just as reassuring to him as it was to his father.

His father, who was reaching up further to cup his cheeks. His father, who’s hands were softer than he expected, but he still couldn’t tear his gaze away from those glittering, joyful eyes. He didn’t think anyone had ever been so happy to see him (half expected a Spartan smile).

“My boy,” his father breathed, “_look_ at you. Come,” He half turned towards the pavilion’s other occupant, but didn’t stop looking at John, “come and see your boy!”

Mrs K– _his mother_, stepped forward now, and her husband finally pried himself away, though still hovering at John’s side. Her smile was smaller, more hesitant, her dark eyes (he’d seen those eyes before) more searching. Once-dark hair was all but white now, and her face was well-lined with the years she’d lived, but otherwise… it was like her face had been plucked from his dreams. He had stared at the photos of her in disbelief for hours when left alone, blinking hard, waiting to wake up in a bunk on the _Infinity_.

Looking at her now, in person, only made that feeling more pronounced.

It was unsettling, _uncanny_, but he still felt that warmth bloom in his chest. The dreams of his mother had been the only good dreams he had for far too long. He’d wondered occasionally how accurate the dream was, how much of it invented; now he knew.

And perhaps that warmth was exactly what his mother was looking for, because her hesitant smile blossomed into something brighter (more familiar). She stepped forward again with more confidence, arms opening as if unconsciously, and John found himself taking his own step forward as he heard his name leave her lips.

(He always ran to her when she called his name across the green space.)

She seemed to take that as a sign, and though this time John was too tall to be enveloped as he usually was, he still felt his mother’s arms wrap around his chest, her hands pressed firmly to his back.

She was soft, yet surprisingly solid; she murmured kind things, _we missed you we’re proud of you it’s so good to hold you_; but she was sobbing into his shirt, small against his massive body and she didn’t smell the same.

No.

_Wait._

She _did _smell the same, the same soap he’d been dreaming of for forty years. It was _John’s memory_ that had been wrong.

Now the scent was fresh in his nose for what felt like the first time, yet the correction had clicked into place in his head as if he’d always known it and just needed reminding, and suddenly John was far too present in his own body. The floor was flat and unyielding beneath him, the still air less cold than outside in the wind, his mother’s body warm and real, and this wasn’t a dream.

This wasn’t a dream.

His father filled the room with his presence and his mother still used the same soap and John was awake.

Carefully, his heart beating too fast and making him feel frantic, John took his mother’s shoulders and pulled her back a little, so he could see her face again. She went easily, willingly, looking up at him like she couldn’t believe he was there. Her arms stayed around him, clinging, clutching, refusing to let him go.

John liked her face. He liked the soft curve of her cheeks and lines around her mouth and the mahogony sheen of her eyes. He liked the silver curls that framed her face, escaping from her braid, the straight nose and the thick eyebrows.

His eyes prickled, burned, and his vision blurred. His mother huffed a tearful laugh and pulled herself in again, one of her hands coming up to the back of his head, as if she meant to tug him down to her. Perhaps she did; she came up to his chin, but he bent his neck until the the pressure of her hand lessened, their damp cheeks pressed together. He could smell her soap more strongly, and the tears came faster. (He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let someone see him cry.)

“John,” she whispered.

Swallowing thickly, he finally answered, “Mom,” and it felt so strange to say but it was _right_, and he nearly sobbed at the conflicting feelings. He’d spent days worried he’d be unable to connect with his parents at all, that they would be strangers that expected things he couldn’t provide. Instead he was being swept away in a tidal wave of emotions he could barely identify, fuelled by a bizarre, nostalgia-tinged sort of déjà vu.

His father sobbed instead, one hand resting over John’s on his mom’s shoulder, the other rubbing circles at his upper back. “My boy, our boy..”

“That’s right,” his mom said thickly, “it’s me, it’s me and your papa. We’re here, we’re here, we’ve got you.”

Papa. Not dad. _Papa_. Booming laughter, empty rooms made full, the shift and give of sand beneath his shoes, the dizzying rush of being lifted into the air.

John lifted his head, looking to his father. The well-maintained beard didn’t quite disguise the thick jaw, wider than John’s, or the prominent chin; but he had the same high cheekbones. His hair was swept back, showing off a widow’s peak, and he had a pronounced Roman nose.

It seemed like John hadn’t inherited as much from his– from his papa as he thought.

But his smile, wide and slightly crooked, that was familiar in a deeper way, familiar like mom’s soap.

So John sniffled, took a steadying breath, and said “Papa,” testing it, tasting it.

And his papa sobbed again, didn’t stop, pressing in closer to embrace the both of them. John shifted, moving his hands from mom’s shoulders; one he pressed to the centre of her back, the other under his papa’s arm to his shoulder blade, his skin tingling.

He’d never been _touched _so much–

They stayed like that for a time, clinging to each other. His parents crying petered out slowly, but John’s silent tears ebbed and flowed without coming to a stop. He relaxed as they held each other, moving to wrap his arms more securely, felt them reciprocate.

When they pulled away he felt a stab of panic; he didn’t want them to go.

But they stayed close, still touching him, watching him with blotchy faces and gentler smiles. John felt warm, but wrung out and fragile, his chest still tight with repressed sobs. So when papa reached up to stroke his hair, and pressed a soft, scratchy kiss to his cheek, it was enough to shatter him.

“Oh!”

“Oh, _John_.”

“Oh, Schmusebärchen!”

Their voices held a tone that was only vaguely familiar, and wholly lacking the mocking edge he’d heard before. A strange mix of pitying and fond, and he found he didn’t mind it at all. They held him tighter, squeezed his arm and rubbed his back, stroked his hair and kissed his face and through it all he sobbed.

Eventually he calmed again, and was immediately beset with tissues. He wiped his face and blew his nose, and let himself be coaxed into sitting down. His knees appreciated it.

They sat on either side of him, sandwiching him between them, pressed just as close. He sank into the plush seating, but his gaze kept being drawn to his parents’ faces.

The light in the pavilion had changed. John frowned, suddenly feeling his stomach start to knot again. How long had they been in here?

“John? What’s wrong, Sternchen?” Mom asked, stroking a knuckle down his cheek. Her pronunciation was quite good, but he supposed it would be after living with Papa for nearly fifty years.

“What time is it?”

She shook her head firmly, dismissing the question. “That doesn’t matter.” Her tone brooked no arguments, but it didn’t ease John’s concern.

“She’s right, Kuschelbär,” Papa murmured, and John couldn’t help but smile at the endless, ridiculous terms of endearment, “We have time, now. We have plenty of time.”

“Now!” He said suddenly, leaning forwards to grab a plate from the table. “Time for refreshments, I think, hm? We have plenty of cookies for you, so eat up!”

“How do you like your tea?” Mom asked. They both seemed to perk up at having something to physically do, and John huffed a soft, mirthful sound. He was much the same.

He still felt off-kilter. He’d been trying to mentally prepare for this meeting for days, but he’d been preparing for a different outcome; even then, he might not have succeeded. It had stopped feeling like it wasn’t real, but it still felt like it _shouldn’t_ be. And still, nagging in the back of his head, was the knowledge that out there, somewhere, a transport was heading for the planet with their second child on board. A little sister he’d never known, who heard he was alive and here and leapt to book passage to come and meet him for the first time.

They would be on slightly more even footing that he thought he’d be with Mom and Papa at least. They would be starting from scratch. (He’d wanted a little sister.)

“I don’t know,” he rumbled in answer to Mom’s question, “how do you make it?”

She smiled and scooped two sugars into the cup.

Papa snorted. “Let’s hope you’ve still got that sweet tooth, eh?”

John looked down at the plate piled high with half a dozen different types of cookie, the raised his eyebrow at Papa.

“… You get that look from your mother, you know.”

John laughed.


End file.
